


half-Windsor; whole heart

by coffeesuperhero



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Spoilers, Suits, Ties, Undercover, secret agent cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is bad at tying ties, but he's pretty good at being in love with Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	half-Windsor; whole heart

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers** : All characters belong to Marvel and various subsidiaries. This isn't for profit, just for fun. 
> 
>  **A/N:** This is clearly an AU because I didn't use the actual plot of the movie much at all, but it still contains LOTS OF SPOILERS for the movie. Please see notes at the bottom for warnings.
> 
> Endless thanks to leiascully for the title and for putting up with all my feelings.

“Okay,” Clint says, buttoning his suit jacket and giving his tie knot a final adjustment. “Let's go be good guys.” 

Phil's smile lasts for about five seconds, then he looks at Clint, _really_ looks, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Barton, you can't be serious about that tie.” 

Clint looks down at it in surprise. “This is the tie that they gave me for the mission, boss,” he explains, smoothing it down with his hand. “It's also the only one I have.” 

“I don't mean the tie itself,” Phil clarifies. “I mean the way you've tied it.” 

Clint is genuinely confused now, but then, whenever Phil talks about clothes, he always feels out of his league. He could discuss aerodynamics of various bows and arrows until the proverbial cows came home, but the minute Phil says something about _notched lapels_ or _Prince Albert knots_ he's totally out to sea. 

He has a pretty good idea of what a Prince Albert is, though, and it's got nothing to do with knots, but he's never really sure if Phil is fucking with him or not when he says that. He keeps intending to google it, but they keep landing in these life-threatening scenarios after he thinks of it, and then he never remembers.

“My tie looks like your tie,” Clint says, looking back and forth between them, and Phil pulls the most pained face Clint thinks he's seen since the last time Phil actually got injured on an op. “What's the problem?” 

“They're not the same knot,” Phil says patiently. “Do I tell you that all your arrows are the same?” 

“No, because that would be pretty fucking ridiculous, Coulson, they're clearly different,” Clint says, and Phil nods briskly. “These ties, though, nope, sorry sir, not seeing it.” 

In about a second Phil is across the room and untying Clint's tie, no warning, just quick hands turning up his collar and setting to work. 

“You've tied what's called a four in hand, Barton,” Phil's saying, his expert fingers working with gentle efficiency to undo all of Clint's painstaking effort to get the damn thing on in the first place. Clint should probably be concentrating a little more on what Phil's saying, because Phil has never talked to _fill_ the air, no pun intended, but the way Phil is standing, the way Phil is touching him, is bringing back to the surface some old feelings Clint would really rather not be having right now, especially not with his partner standing so fucking close, doing something as goddamn _intimate_ and _personal_ as tying his tie. 

“And that's bad, is it,” Clint mutters, knowing he'll get a lecture and hoping it will distract him from this rising desire to lean even further into Phil's touch than he already is. He'd told himself firmly after the last op in New Mexico that he had no business being as stupidly in love with Phil as he always has been, especially if they're doing this Avengers thing, and he really thought that he and a string of one-night stands had talked himself out of this little infatuation, but apparently not. 

He should have known better. Phil Coulson is a walking, talking streak of competency, and what more could an archer want, really, than somebody who pays attention to the details the way Phil does, somebody who values precision, who wants to get it right, hit the bulls-eye, every damn time.

So yes, the fact that Phil is so _goddamn good at things_ is a real turn-on, and the years they've spent together, refining their silent communication skills until they can say paragraphs to each other with nothing more than a quirk of the lips or the barely audible whisper of breath in an earpiece, well, _that isn't helping matters either_. 

Add in the part where Phil is also a total badass who can take down multiple armed thugs with a box of cereal and a few well-placed punches-- generic corn flakes, if he's remembering that situation correctly, and he is, because he'll never forget the smooth lines of Phil's suit in his scope, the way the fabric moved with him like it was a weapon itself, nor will he forget the calm sound of Phil's voice in his earpiece afterwards-- and Clint is, as far as he can tell at this moment, well and truly fucked, and not at all in the way he'd like to be. 

“Barton?” Phil's asking, and Clint snaps back to reality. 

“Sorry, boss,” he says, shrugging apologetically. “You were saying?” 

“You asked if a four in hand was an appropriate knot, and I said, not unless you're thirteen,” Phil says, straightening out the fabric of the tie, preparing to rearrange it into something he feels is suitable. “Or if you're going somewhere very informal, which we aren't on this mission.” 

“It's a party. We're not exactly undercover at a royal ball, Coulson,” Clint points out. 

“No, we're not, and I'm hardly going to tie a full Windsor,” Phil scoffs, like Clint had actually suggested he do such a thing, whatever the fuck that even _is_. “Your shirt collar isn't right for that. This is a half-Windsor, and you should learn to tie one yourself, but I don't have time to teach you right now.” 

“You realize that you're basically forcing me to retaliate by taking you out to the range for target practice,” Clint jokes, understanding too late that if he wants to avoid Phil finding out about these feelings he keeps having, the absolute worst thing he could do would be to take Phil out on the range and try to teach him basic archery, because he would probably think it was a great idea to do some dumbass thing like _put his arms around Phil_ to make sure he was holding his hands and arms correctly, and he really, really needs to _stop thinking_ about that, immediately. 

“Who says I can't already shoot a bow?” Phil asks slyly, looping the fabric of the tie over the knot he's made. “It could have been part of my training.” 

Sometimes it's hard to know when Phil is being serious and when he's dicking around, and Clint knows most people just assume that he's always for real, that Phil Coulson doesn't have a fucking-around bone in his body, but most people haven't worked with Phil long enough to get to know what a smartass he can be. Clint knows firsthand, and he tries to give as good as he gets.

“You're full of shit, Coulson,” Clint says after a second, and that is clearly the right answer, because Phil laughs, really laughs, and yeah, what started out as a problem is steadily becoming a _situation_ , because Phil is standing there with his hands on Clint's chest, fixing his tie like _lovers do_ , and to top it off he's laughing like a real person and not Special Agent Coulson of SHIELD, and Clint's heart is hovering somewhere eight feet above his head and he's not sure he ever wants it to come down, even though it has to, because Phil is pretty much done with the tie now, and there's no reason for him to hesitate further. 

“All right, Barton,” Phil's saying, giving the knot of Clint's tie one last tug before he steps away. 

“Am I presentable, sir?” Clint asks, and he'd love to believe that Phil's hands lingered on his chest just a little longer than was strictly necessary, but he knows it's gotta be wishful thinking. 

Phil looks him up and down, and Clint can't help it, he shivers, just a little. “You'll do,” Phil says, and Clint rolls his eyes and follows him out the door. 

+

The party is at a museum, and it's one of those nights where he's especially grateful that Phil is the person who does this with him now, because he never has to explain to Phil why his eyes are roaming up into the shadowy corners of the vaulted ceilings, he never has to say, “I'd rather be up there than down here.” Phil just _gets_ it, even though Phil moves through these things with the natural ease and grace of someone who grew up going to these events. 

Clint has never asked, but even with his minimal knowledge of suits, he's always figured that Phil's threads were a little too fancy for a G-man's salary. That's Trust Fund Money, and he'd bet his bow on it, but tonight he had to leave it in the hotel, because nothing screams _does not belong_ at these soirees quite like a guy toting around a double recurve with a quiver full of exploding arrows. 

More's the pity; an explosion or two could really liven things up. 

Phil glances over at him, his fingers briefly lighting on Clint's elbow, and shrugs, as if to say that he'd take the explosions over this bullshit any day. Clint smiles back, and they push on through the crowd towards the room where their target for this mission is hidden. 

He's really going to miss this, if they do go through with this Avengers Initiative bullshit. He likes the quiet camaraderie that he shares with Phil, and he doesn't want that interrupted by a bunch of superhero divas. Oh, he meant it when he told them that he was honored, sure enough, because for a guy with his background, this opportunity is beyond incredible, but privately, he'd rather stand in the shadows next to Phil Coulson and save the world one mission at a time than run around in the light and be recognized for it. 

He had talked to Nat about it, but she'd already made up her mind for herself, and she'd just looked at him knowingly and asked, “What did Phil say?” 

He asked if he's that fucking transparent to everyone or if it's just to Nat, if maybe she only knows because there was a time when he looked at her like he looks at Phil, and she had laughed and squeezed his arm and said, “Barton, you don't look at anybody like you look at him, but don't worry: if that's the way you want it, your secret dies with me.” 

That's not really the way he wants it, but he doesn't know how to get what he wants without running the risk that he fucks all of this up, and he's fucked up enough in his life. This is for keeps, even if it's just a dream. 

If Phil weren't the handler for the whole damn team, Clint would just say no to the Avengers Initiative and that would be that; they would keep right on doing what they do and he'd never have to give up any of the little post-mission traditions he and Phil have developed over the years, he'd never have to worry that the day's gonna come when he sits on a rooftop and has to choose between Phil and one of the Avengers. 

He already knows what Phil would want him to do. He's not really sure if he could, and that adds to his general feeling that he _does not belong_ on this project. 

Phil, he knows, disagrees with him. Phil's told him more than once that he deserves this, that this is a _promotion_ , and he gets the impression that Phil is being sincere, but he can't get a handle on what Phil thinks about it for himself. On the one hand, everyone knows that Phil must have been the little kid who read every single Captain America comic and grew up and joined the army to Be Like Cap; on the other hand, he can see someone as ordered and precise as Phil gravitating to the armed services just because they, too, value order and precision. 

His hand drifts up to the knot of his tie. Order and precision, sure. Phil's got 'em in spades. But that's only Agent Coulson of SHIELD, because Agent Coulson of SHIELD has to be that guy, he has to be the man who has his shit so together that you don't even know that he has any. 

That's the how, but Clint doesn't think that's the why, because sometimes, when they're up late finishing mission reports with a box of pizza open on the desk between them in Phil's office, and Phil is talking about the Initiative and why Clint should join, he swears he can _almost_ hear that little kid's enthusiasm. Phil hides it pretty well as long as Rogers isn't actually around, disguising it behind a lot of eyerolling about who's going to be the biggest diva (Tony Stark wins out over even a Norse god every time), but nevertheless, they've been doing this long enough that Clint still suspects that underneath all that practiced nonchalance is a nerdy, exuberant seven-year old boy going, _We've got Iron Man and Thor and the Hulk and Black Widow and **Captain America** , wow!_

He's probably never been more in love with Phil than he is in those moments, those tiny glimpses of the human being underneath the suit. Phil Coulson may not always be on a mission, but he's always undercover. 

Knowing even the little that he knows of Phil Coulson seems like a bigger honor than being asked to be Hawkeye, the Avenger. 

It's still tough to reconcile Phil's excitement over this project with Phil's quiet insistence that Clint be a part of it, because Clint has never seen himself as the superhero type. Saving the world, yeah, okay, that's a thing that they do, he and Phil, and they're pretty good at it, but from his perspective, what they do, when he does it, it's nothing special, but when Phil does it, it's a fucking work of art. 

The god's honest truth is that Clint Barton is not prepared to live in a world where somebody like Phil Coulson might even possibly be as in awe of him as he is of Phil, but they've got a mission to do, and whatever Phil may think of Hawkeye, Clint's got a pretty good idea of what he thinks of Clint Barton. It may not be everything he wants it to be, but they were never gonna bring each other flowers, they were never going to skip through a fucking field of daisies or some shit like that. They're not those people. After all the mistakes he's made in his life, he's just grateful that somebody like Phil is willing to have faith in him at all, even if it's a product of partnership, of friendship, and nothing more. 

Phil brushes his shoulder against Clint's arm, once, twice, three times a signal, and Clint knows that the mission's a go. 

“You're looking good in that suit, Barton,” Phil says roughly in his ear, and Clint delivers the usual code phrase with an air of desire that he doesn't even remotely have to fake. 

“You'd look better out of yours,” he murmurs, and then they're fumbling against each other in the dark hallway outside their target room, forcing the few tipsy party guests that are lingering there to find their own damn room. 

He's whispering the all clear in Phil's ear, and maybe he _accidentally_ nips Phil's earlobe as he does it, but to be somewhat fair, Phil has just shoved him up against the wall, and all he can really do is _react_. Phil's hand is up under Clint's suit jacket, unobtrusively activating the freq-specific EMP device that he's wearing underneath his dress shirt. If Phil stays pressed against him for a full four seconds past the time for the device to have temporarily disabled the security system inside the room, Clint is certain it's just because he's being thorough. 

There hasn't been a single mission where they've used those lines where Clint hasn't desperately wanted them to have more meaning than, “Operation Fill-in-the-Blank is on,” and this one is no different, but over the years he's gotten pretty damn good at ignoring what his body wants, focusing only on the mission, or at least ninety-percent on the mission. He picks the lock and they're in and out in two minutes, target acquired. 

It'll take him longer than two minutes to come back down from the exhilaration of Phil's body sliding against his, even if it's only a sad parody of what Clint really wants, but they've got a long drive back to HQ, and even with Phil's crazy driving, it's plenty of time to decompress. 

\+ 

The Avengers gig is a pain in the ass more than it is a reward, but they've been at it for a couple of months now and the team is finally, _finally_ starting to pull together and work as a unit, and it really is a fucking sight to behold, all these people kicking ass and taking names. Their fuck-ups are pretty spectacular, but when they get it right, they really get it right. 

It's not as good as one-on-one with Phil, but at least Phil's around, mostly, even if most of his job seems to be making phone calls and babysitting Stark. 

The first time somebody flips their shit on Clint and asks for an autograph, he's just standing in Starbucks, minding his own business, getting Phil a doubleshot and an oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie, because if he overheard correctly yesterday while he was tucked into the corner of the boardroom ceiling, Phil should actually be in his office all day barring some kind of fucking catastrophe, and he is determined to park his carcass on Phil's uncomfortable couch for most of the day and just _exist_. It won't be just like old times, but it'll be close. 

He signs a bunch of shit for a bunch of excited people, and it takes him a whole fucking hour to get out of the place. Maybe he lies and fakes a transmission from SHIELD to get out of it. Maybe he pretends that they're able to send messages directly to his brain, because it's easier than faking a phone call. 

“There, uh, may be a thing on the news about SHIELD communicating with the Avengers through telepathy,” Clint says, when he's finally standing in the doorway of Phil's office with coffee and baked goods. “Sorry about that.” 

“Who says we can't do that?” Phil says, gratefully accepting the coffee and waving Clint toward the couch.

“They fucking asked for my _autograph_ , Coulson,” Clint says, shaking his head. “Like I'm Tony Stark or something.” 

“Well,” Phil says, like he'd expected this all along, “of course they did. You're Hawkeye, the Avenger.” 

There it is, that little flash of excitement, and Clint can feel his face warming, because he definitely does not deserve that kind of admiration from Phil Fucking Coulson, of all people. 

“Hawkeye the Avenger,” he says, covering his awkward embarrassment by shaking his head and stealing a bite of Phil's cookie. “I swear sometimes it's like I never left the fucking circus.” 

“I think this place is more of a zoo,” Phil sighs, and right on cue, there's a crash and a muffled explosion emanating from the general direction of Tony's lab, followed by some shouting and cursing and, naturally, the sudden blaring noise of Ozzy's “Iron Man.” 

“Good point,” Clint says, rubbing his ears. The music gets louder, and he makes a face. “You want me to go shoot the stereo, boss?” 

Phil shakes his head. “He'd just build a bigger one.” 

He stays on Phil's couch all day, talking about nothing at all and doodling cartoons on Phil's file folders when he thinks he can get away with it. 

It's a good day. 

\+ 

The fights get tougher. They get into scrapes. Clint lands in medical once or twice, and even though it's nothing too bad, Phil still comes to check on him. Clint tells himself that Phil's their handler and he would do that for any one of the team, even Stark, who is a professional pain in his ass. Maybe especially Stark, since he has a tendency to hit on anything that moves, especially the people in medical. Apparently uniforms really do it for the guy. 

But Clint, well, he's still a sucker for a sharp-dressed man, so maybe he shouldn't judge Tony Stark too harshly, even when Tony's the reason his ass is chilling in medical instead of out on the range. 

Phil oversees the test run of the new exploding arrowheads that Stark designs for Clint and they all nearly get blown to kingdom come, but fortunately nobody gets seriously injured. He sits with Phil in medical, cuts and bruises all over both of them, waiting for somebody to come and stitch them up. Maybe his knee knocks against Phil's. Maybe Phil's knocks back, but it's probably just a reflex. 

Probably. 

\+ 

Banner hadn't been wrong; the team is a not unlike a time bomb. They lose focus, they fight with each other more than they fight their enemies. And then there's Phil, Phil who suddenly seems to want nothing to do with him. 

Phil's never in his office, and when he is, he's distant and reserved, no little glimpses of the human under the suit, just the suit and nothing more. Maybe the thrill is gone. Maybe there never really was one. 

After a month of one-word answers to all of his questions and the irritated edge in Phil's voice whenever he comes by, Clint leaves off trying. 

Nat leaves a bottle of vodka in his locker, because she's a good friend. 

\+ 

Then there's the mission that Phil doesn't come back from, and Clint sits in Phil's empty, dark office at HQ for two days, drinking himself into a stupor, staring at one of the cards from that stupid fucking set of Captain America cards that Fury had thrown onto the table in front of them. He'd rather have seen the fucking body. Bodies he can handle, because he's a spy and he's a killer and death is no stranger, but seeing little pieces of Phil Coulson's heart scattered across that table, that was more than he could bear. 

They had each taken one, even Nat, who doesn't usually give a shit about things like that. It had been Steve's idea, a way to remind them all what they're fighting for, a way to remember fallen soldiers, that sort of thing. It's all very Steve Rogers. It's all very fucking sad. 

Clint sits at Phil's desk and holds that stupid fucking card and cries like a fucking baby, because he's lost a partner and a damn good friend, and the world has lost even more than that and the world won't ever even fucking know it. The world has lost a nerdy, exuberant kid who valued order and precision and really, really wanted to Be Like Cap, so much so that it killed him. 

Maybe he gets into a fight with Steve later. Maybe he starts it. Maybe Steve lets him land every single punch, because maybe Steve really is the best of all of them. 

He keeps his card in his wallet, and if they have to suit up, he slips it under his uniform, right over his heart. 

\+ 

They don't have a funeral, because that's not a thing that you do when somebody dies who doesn't legally exist. They do have a memorial service, and Thor raises Mjolnir and talks about the honor and valor and bravery of Coul's son, and Banner reads a Buddhist koan or four, and Nat recites some mournful Latin poem that he thinks is about warriors returning home, and Tony tries to give a speech but breaks down halfway through and lets Steve take over. 

Clint doesn't really say much because he can't, his throat's closed up with grief. So he just stands there with his hand over the perfect half-Windsor knot that he made Tony tie for him, and lets that serve as his own silent tribute. 

+

And then Phil comes back to them, not dead after all. Someone had to test the LMD prototypes; someone had to die for the Avengers to really get their shit together. Someone had to hide out in the middle of fucking nowhere and pretend to be a normal human being for a year instead of a badass secret agent. Someone had to do all of that, and Clint gets it, he really does, he's just not sure why that person had to be _Phil_.

Clint is very fucking furious, but Fury, as usual, doesn't give a shit, he just reminds Clint that he's an Avenger now, that things are different. 

And things are different, but some things are the same, and when everything is over and Loki's been sent packing and they have time to breathe again, he's back in Phil's office, pizza and sitreps and talking about nothing, and he feels whole for the first time since it happened. 

He's pissed at Phil, too, but he's happier that Phil's alive, he's happier that the distance between them before it happened was just Phil preparing for an op. 

Phil never quite says that he's sorry about all of it, but one day Clint opens his wallet to pay for a doubleshot and an oatmeal chocolate-chip cookie, and in place of that old trading card is one of Phil's business cards with a carefully written note on the back that says, “Thanks for holding onto this for me,” and he figures that's probably as much of an apology as he'll get. 

He scribbles, "You're welcome," on the cookie wrapper, and sketches a tiny version of himself saying it. Maybe he adds a tie to the drawing. Just for laughs. 

+

The worst part about the world knowing about the Avengers is not the autographs or the strange celebrity status, because Clint has been a spy for too fucking long not to know how to be invisible. The worst part about this is that sometimes they have to play nice and smile for the cameras, and that means suits and ties, that means fancy fucking parties and stupid ceremonies.

Clint tries for a full hour to get the fucking knot on his fucking tie to come out right before he gives up and heads out to consult an expert. 

“Help,” Clint says, as soon as Phil opens the door. He holds up a tie and makes what he hopes is a suitably pathetic face. “I have to go to this bullshit ceremony that I don't want to go to because you know how I feel about these fucking things, and I cannot fucking tie this thing. I looked up the instructional videos on YouTube and I still can't get it right.” 

Phil waves him in, looking like he considers this to be pretty fucking hilarious, and holds his hand out for the tie. “This isn't that difficult,” Phil tells him, running the tie around under Clint's collar and evening out the ends. 

“Look, I'd just like to point out the many things I do well,” Clint says. Maybe he leans in farther than he needs to, but that's not new. Maybe Phil's taking his sweet time tying this thing, or maybe that's just his imagination. Maybe. 

“Of course,” Phil says, adjusting the knot of the tie. “Still. You really need to learn to do this for yourself.” 

"Yeah, well, this is why you can never really die, Phil," Clint says, before he can stop himself. "Who would fix me up?"

He opens his mouth to say that of course, he means the tie and only the tie, that it's not like he's been in fucking mourning for a year, it's not like he _needs_ Phil in his life in any capacity other than Friend and Occasional Tie Fixer, but that isn't the truth, and the question hangs between them, unanswered. 

Clint would love to believe that there's more to the way that Phil's smoothing down his tie than just Phil's dedication to tie aesthetics, but he doesn't, at least not until Phil takes a step back, looks him over, and says quietly, unexpectedly, “You're looking good in that suit, Barton." 

"You'd look better out of yours," Clint tells him automatically, hardly even daring to hope that this is _real_ , but then Phil's kissing him and that feels very, very real, and very, very good. 

“God, seriously? This is real, right,” Clint asks, his forehead resting against Phil's. “You actually want this as much as I do?” 

Phil pulls back and stares at him for a long moment. “You really don't know that I do?” 

“I see better at a distance,” Clint says, shrugging. “And you-- you're always right in front of me.” 

"I'll be happy to stay behind you for a while, if that will help," Phil quips, and Clint grins at him. 

"I'm ready when you are," he says.

+

Clint doesn't make it to the ceremony. He's a little tied up, and as it turns out, love, well, love just really suits him.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major character death (but not really, because I run an Everybody Lives show, and Denial is the favorite river of all Coulson fangirls), off-screen violence.


End file.
